


That Boy

by monchy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monchy/pseuds/monchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Touch yourself for me, boy."</p><p>Modern!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Boy

 

He hadn’t touched him in weeks, almost a month now, and Stannis was starting to feel like a junkie craving his drug. He should have known better than to touch the boy in the first place, but even he had to admit that he had weaknesses that he couldn’t overcome. Jon Snow was one of them.

 

The boy had been good, though. Stannis had told him that he would only have what Stannis gave when he gave it and nothing more, and he hadn’t made any cheap attempts at seduction. He was Ned Stark’s son, after all, and as defiant as his quiet demeanour could be, it also spoke of a stoicism rarely seen in kids Jon’s age. Nineteen he was, barely a pup.

 

Stannis had been watching him today, his eyes straining towards his sharp angles and dark hair as he moved about the house, Shireen and Edric in tow. He’d almost broken down when the search for one of Shireen’s toys had had the boy kneeling on the floor, arse in the air for the longest half-hour of Stannis' life. _Screwing the nanny, for God’s sake._ Robert would have been proud, and Stannis knew that anything that may grant approval from his older brother was nothing but trouble.

 

He had called the boy today so that he could finish correcting papers without the distraction of his children. Jon had cooked and played and watched cartoons with them, and Stannis’ pile of thirty four papers had remained nearly untouched. He guessed he could hardly be blamed for preferring to look at the boy over frustrating himself with the stupidity of his students, but that didn’t make a difference. He was a grown man, old enough to be Jon’s father, and there was nothing about this situation that wasn’t wrong.

 

When the night fell upon them, Jon had the kids kiss Stannis goodbye before putting them to bed. He barely registered their tiny goodnights, busy as he was spying Jon’s eyes, soft under his eyelashes, and the barely there touch of his hand on Stannis’ wrist. He watched the three of them walk away towards the bedrooms, and bit back a sigh, if only because letting it out would have been entirely too pathetic.

 

He let his mind wander completely away from his work and walked over to the couch, sitting down heavily. It was Saturday night, and as he spied the glimmer of light coming from the hallway, he wondered why the boy was here instead of out with his friends, getting drunk and being stupid. He was always available when Stannis called, entirely too willing, and Stannis felt a flash of anger towards him for that. The boy shouldn’t had allowed this in the first place, should have stepped away the first time Stannis had laid a hand on him. Instead, he kept coming to him, looking at him, quietly expecting the moments in which Stannis broke down and asked things of him that he shouldn’t give.

 

Not ten minutes later, the boy re-emerged from the kid’s bedrooms, his figure cutting a striking shadow in the light. He walked all the way to Stannis, standing before him, close enough that Stannis had to look up to see his face. Their knees where close together, and Stannis fancied that he could feel the heat coming from Jon’s body.

 

“I’m leaving,” Jon said, and Stannis could feel the anticipation all over his skin.

 

He said nothing, though, allowing Jon’s shoulders to sag under his steady look, and his eyes to turn tired and dark. Two beats of his heart, almost echoing in the silence, and Jon said:

 

“Goodnight, then.”

 

His steps were slow and determined as he walked away from Stannis and towards the door. Stannis let him get halfway to the door before stopping him with a commanding, sharp, “Boy.”

 

Jon’s back arched immediately, his muscles almost visible through his thin white t-shirt. He didn’t move, keeping his back to Stannis.

 

“Come here,” Stannis said, and Jon did, no questions asked, his steps as slow and steady as they had been when they had been taking him in the opposite direction.

 

Jon stood in front of Stannis yet again, waiting. Always waiting, and there was something so inherently defiant about the boy that seeing him yield to him was exhilarating, a turn on all on its own.

 

“Come _here_ ,” Stannis repeated.

 

Jon got his meaning easily enough, sliding himself over Stannis’ lap in one fluid movement. His thighs spread themselves over Stannis’ own, the fabric of his jeans tight over every inch of skin. He didn’t pull himself flush against Stannis, letting some room to breath between them even as he rested his hands on the back of the couch. He emanated heat, and Stannis had to restrain himself before he did something like throwing him to the floor and taking him roughly. The fact that Jon may not oppose to the idea was only another element against Stannis’ own inner fight.

 

The boy was looking him, his eyes dark and heavy on his face. Stannis stared back, almost daring him to do something. In the end, Stannis gave in and let his hand wander under Jon’s t-shirt, touching his stomach with just the pads of his fingers. Jon’s whole body _sighed_ , and the tension seemed to drain from him, shoulders sagging and hands sliding down the couch until they were against Stannis’ shoulders.

 

Stannis kept his touch soft and slow, letting his fingers wander from Jon’s chest to his navel and to the small of his back, dipping them under the waistband of his jeans to hear the boy’s small gasps. By the time Stannis undid the button of Jon’s jeans, the boy was hiding his face in his neck and he was hard. He was hot and heavy too, Stannis noticed when he pulled him out of his jeans.

 

Stannis looked, just looked, and he would have laughed when Jon followed a whine with a roll of his hips if the movement hadn’t touched his own hard cock. He pressed both hands to Jon’s hips and steadied him. His skin was hot and slick to the touch.

 

Stannis studied the possibilities, and finally said, “Touch yourself.”

 

Jon left his hiding place in Stannis’ neck to look at him. His eyes were dark when they stared into Stannis’ own.

 

“Touch yourself for me, boy.”

 

The order was received with a groan this time. Jon reached for himself, putting one hand on his cock while he kept the other one on Stannis’ shoulder. He stroked himself slowly, raising his hips towards his own hand as much as Stannis allowed him to. The view and the sound was pure filth, and good God but Stannis had a nineteen year old boy, Ned Stark’s son no less, touching his cock on his lap. This boy, who was defiant and quiet and stoic and at the same time so stupidly _willing_ that it made Stannis’ blood burn.

 

“Like this? Is this what you want?” Jon asked, sliding himself closer to Stannis, until he could feel every stroke of Jon’s hand on his own stomach.

 

Stannis didn’t answer. Instead, he put his hands to Jon’s arse and squeezed. Then, he let one hand wander inside his jeans and to the swell of his buttocks, his fingers teasing in their movement. Jon cursed inwardly, and Stannis brought his attention back to Jon’s cock in his own hand, hard and red and so close. The boy was a spectacle, sweaty and horny, moulding himself to Stannis’ demands.

 

Stannis’ shirt was wet with pre-come, the head of the boy’s cock painting a wet spot somewhere below his ribcage. He pressed Jon closer against him with a hand against the small of his back, at the same time allowing himself to thrust up into him, his own cock pressing into the back of Jon’s strong thigh. The boy bit back a moan, his head falling on Stannis’ shoulder as his movement became fast and erratic. Stannis pressed his lips to his neck, tasting sweaty, salty skin.

 

He gave the boy’s arse one last squeeze before he felt him come apart, his back arching as he came with a low growl. Stannis felt warm come through his shirt, and became suddenly hyperaware of Jon’s body over him: his thighs spread on his lap, his hand tight on his shoulder, his chest breathing rapidly almost against his own, his face against his neck, breath hot and fast, his round arse under his palms. It was almost too much.

 

Stannis gave Jon no time to recover, pushing and prodding and manhandling until he had him on his knees, jeans halfway down his thighs and arse naked and up in the air. He undid his own pants and pushed his own hard cock between the boy’s cheeks.

 

“Fuck,” Jon murmured, his face pressed against his arms where they were resting on the couch.

 

“Shut up, boy.”

 

It took him what felt like seconds to come against Jon’s back, his cock sliding easily between his cheeks, the boy’s skin sweaty and slick. It would have been just as easy to slip _inside_ and give the boy a proper fuck, but they hadn’t crossed that line just yet and Stannis was doing his best at keeping himself in check. He didn’t think he was doing that good of a job when he looked at the boy, lying on his couch half naked and with come on his back.

 

His eyes where what undid Stannis, though, tired and half covered by dark curls, looking at him with something akin to trust. They made Stannis recoil and try to pull himself together almost immediately.

 

“Clean yourself up, boy,” he said, throwing his already destroyed shirt his way and disappearing inside his room to find a clean one.

 

When he went back, Jon was already dressed and standing up close to the door, as if he knew what followed. What followed was almost a ritual, the hard dismissal Stannis always gave him for being the cause of such missteps in his life, for being a walking temptation and following his lead without question, for minding his time and just _waiting_ until the next time Stannis gave in. It was torture on them both, but it was the only way Stannis had of dealing with this.

 

“I better go,” Jon said, his voice rougher than it had been before. Stannis wished, just for a second, that there was a shade of accusation in his tone.

 

“Wait.”

 

With two steps Stannis was in front of him, nearly touching. He grabbed at the back of his neck, his fingers against soft skin and hair, and brought their lips together. It was a hard kiss, dry until Jon sucked Stannis’ lower lip between his own. Stannis broke away before it evolved into something else, and then let the boy leave without another word.

 

His feet felt heavy when he laid down on his bed, his mind reeling, angry at itself. He’d been doing so good, had thought he was over this crazy spell. He should have gotten someone else to take care of the children, but he’d been stubborn enough to test himself with the presence of the boy.

 

He rolled onto his back with a frustrated groan and most definitely didn’t think about Jon Snow or his body squirming as he touched himself on his lap.

 

He hadn’t touched the boy in weeks, and he wondered how much longer he would last this time.


End file.
